Sweet Sanctuary (19 page)

“Nic, please . . .” Lydia bit back a wail of distress. Where was her avenging angel? Couldn't God send one of His messengers to swoop in and save her son?

Nic bounded forward and wrapped his arm around Nicky's middle. Nicky screeched in fear as Nic pried him from Lydia's trembling arms. Father raced over and caught hold of Nicky's wrists, and the two men engaged in a fierce tug-of-war with Nicky as the rope. The little boy's cries became frantic, his fear-filled gaze boring into Lydia's with a pleading that nearly shattered her heart. She cried out, “Father! Nic! You're hurting him! Stop!”

The tussle ended so abruptly Nic staggered backward several feet, nearly dropping Nicky, who wriggled for freedom. Nic shifted his grip, allowing the boy to dangle under his arm like a sack of potatoes. He bounced a scowl across the other adults in the room and growled, “Next person who interferes is gonna get this kid dropped on his head. That what you want?”

Father clenched his fists, his body arching toward Nic. Lydia
shot to his side and curled her hands around his stiff arm. “We don't want Nicky to be hurt.” She spoke to Nic, but she prayed her father would heed her words.

“Smart girl.” Nic turned toward the hallway, Nicky no longer writhing but continuing to whimper. “I got what I came for, so I'm leavin' now.”

Lydia scuttled after him with Father on her heels. She held her hands helplessly toward Nicky, who dangled from Nic's arm like a rag doll, but Nic's brisk pace kept Nicky just out of her reach. Outside, Nic stomped to the truck, but with Nicky in his grasp, he couldn't open the door.

He spun on Lydia. “I'm gonna put him down. Don't do nothin' stupid.” His glare moved past Lydia to her father, who stood bristling behind her, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Got a gun in the truck glove box. You grab him and try to run . . .” The threat hung in the air between them.

Lydia stared hard into Nic's sullen face, her heart pounding. Was he bluffing? He could be, but she didn't dare risk it. She swallowed. “I won't.”

He bent slightly, lowering Nicky's feet to the grass. The moment Nicky gained his footing, he lurched toward Lydia. But Nic grabbed the little boy's collar with a fierce yank. “Don't you move, boy.”

Tears trailed down Nicky's flushed cheeks. His lower lip quivered, his dark eyes beseeched, and his arms remained outstretched, but both he and Lydia stayed obediently in place while Nic yanked the truck door open. He flapped his hand at the torn seat. “Get in.”

Nicky hunched his skinny shoulders and shot a confused look in Nic's direction. “Where'm I goin'?”

“With me.” Catching Nicky's shirt in a wad, Nic lifted the squirming boy and hefted him into the truck's cab.

Nicky yelped in surprise. He scrambled onto his knees as Nic slammed the door. Leaning out the open window, he whimpered, “Mama?”

Nic slapped the door. “Get back in there!”

Nicky's sobs became wild, stabbing Lydia's heart with a pain so intense she could scarcely draw a breath. She bolted forward. “Nic, let me comfort him at least! You're frightening him!”

Nic looked past her to the boy, and something in his hard expression melted. He jerked his thumb toward Nicky. “Go ahead. Make him calm down.” Derision twisted his face again. “Don't wanna listen to him blubber the whole ride.”

Ignoring Nic's callous reasoning, Lydia leaned into the window's opening and rubbed her son's back. Nicky's hold on her neck turned desperate, his little fingers digging into her flesh. “Nicky, sweetheart, please listen to Mama.” Anguish strangled her vocal cords, putting a tremble in her voice, but she had to make this easier on Nicky. “You're going for a ride. You'll get to sit up high and look out. It will be a fun ride, Nicky.”

Slowly Nicky pulled his tear-stained face from her shoulder. “I'm going for a ride?” His voice quavered.

“That's right.” Lydia eased him onto the seat. She wiped his tears with her fingertips then brushed back his hair. “A ride with—” She couldn't call the monster who stood glowering at them
daddy.
“Nic.”

“Can you come, too?”

She looked at Nic. He shook his head. The knife in Lydia's chest twisted. “No, sweetheart. Just you and Nic.”

Fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. “But I don't wanna go without you, Mama.”

Lydia sensed Nic's impatience. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder, silently begging him for time. Mother scurried across the yard with Nicky's teddy bear, which she held toward
the little boy. Nic grabbed the tattered bear and started to throw the stuffed animal in the pickup's bed, but then he paused, staring at the bear for a moment with an unreadable expression on his face. He sighed, then snorted. With one gigantic step, he nudged Lydia aside and thrust the bear through the window opening. “Here. Now you aren't alone.”

Nicky cuddled the bedraggled toy against his chest. “Please come, too, Mama.”

Lydia's heart was surely shattered. Never had she felt such agony. “I can't, sweetheart.” She took a deep breath, forcing a smile. She captured his face between her hands and kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his Cupid's lips. She breathed in the little-boy smell of him, memorizing every freckle, every scratch, every misplaced lock of hair. “Remember, though, that everywhere you go, Jesus goes, too. You're never alone, Nicky.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “Y-you go now, and have fun. And you tell me all about it . . . when you see me again.”

Nic grunted behind her. She swung around. Tears blurred her vision, but her voice was strong. “I will see him again, Nic. You can't keep him from me forever. He's my son.”

Nic leaned forward, his face inches from hers. “He's
my
son, Lydia.” He stomped around the truck, swung himself into the seat, and pumped the clutch. The engine roared to life. Nicky wrapped his fingers over the window case. Tears streamed down his pale cheeks. His mouth formed the word “Mama,” but Lydia couldn't hear him over the sound of the engine. Then the truck lurched forward, sending Nicky against the back of the seat, and Nic drove away.

Lydia, her hands outstretched, took several stumbling steps after the truck. The futility of her action stilled her feet, but she stood in the road, hands reaching, staring at the top of Nicky's head in the back window. She remained there, frozen, until the
truck turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Even then, she stared, praying . . . hoping . . . it might reappear.

“Lydia?” Mother touched Lydia's arm, tears streaming down her cheeks. She rasped, “I called the police. They're coming.”

Hopelessness sagged Lydia's spine. “What difference does it make now? He's gone.” Her gaze moved past Mother's form to the middle of the yard, where Father stood as if rooted in place. He might have been carved in stone, so still and stern was his appearance. Fury roared through Lydia's mind. Fists clenched, she staggered toward her father, her leaden feet making her clumsy. “A job. All you had to do was offer him a job, and we might have been able to stay in touch with Nicky until we could work this out.”

Father's chin shot up, his eyes like granite. “I won't hire an addict.”

“You won't hire—?” She clutched the hair at her temples and screeched loudly enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. “But you stood there while an addict drove away with my son!” Grief overwhelmed her. Sobbing, she fell to her knees. “My son. My baby, my baby . . .” The words groaned out in an animalistic keening. Mother knelt behind her, enclosing Lydia in her arms and rocking with her, crying with her. Together they mourned their loss, the sorrow no less for being shared.

When Lydia finally raised her face, her father was gone.

22

N
ic squeezed the steering wheel and gritted his teeth. He glanced at the kid, who hugged his stuffed bear to his chest and sobbed. The wails pierced Nic's ears. If he had a free hand he'd give the boy a good whack so he'd have a reason for all that caterwauling.

“Hush your fussin' right now,” Nic demanded. The truck hit a bump, and Nicky lost his seating. He let out a sharp yelp of alarm, but the shock stifled the wails. For the moment.

Scooting back and forth, the little boy wriggled his way into the corner again, as far from Nic as he could go without crawling out the window. Tears dampened his face and clung to his thick lashes, making them stand out in moist spikes. Nic turned his gaze forward, focusing on the road leading to Weston, determined to push aside the image of Eleanor that rose in his memory. But despite his efforts, the remembrance lingered, burning like coals in the center of his chest.

She'd cried so hard the day she'd told him she was expecting. For good reason. Nic'd been furious. Hadn't he told her he didn't want kids? He'd never had anything all to himself—certainly not anything that mattered. And he hadn't wanted to share Eleanor
with anything or anybody. Not six months married and she'd gotten in a family way. And then she'd up and run off, choosing the baby over him.

Nic released a low growl, and the boy whimpered, hunkering over his bear. Nic shot another quick look at Eleanor's son. The little boy met his gaze, hurt and fear glittering in his eyes. The burn in Nic's middle increased in intensity. The boy's eyes—set in a heart-shaped face above a tip-tilted nose and bowed lips—stirred pictures of the sorrow he'd inflicted on the woman he'd loved and lost.

And now, if he handed the boy over to Mrs. Bachman, he'd lose his only remaining tie to Eleanor. But he had to let the Bachmans take Nicky—how else would he get money?

Confusion rolled through his mind as the strange desire to keep the little boy who resembled the woman he'd loved battled with the strong desire for money to feed his habit.

“M-mister?” The child's wavering, high-pitched voice filtered through Nic's thoughts. “I . . . I don't feel so good.”

Nic took a look at Nicky's white, sweaty face, and he cursed. He jerked the steering wheel, bouncing the truck off the road and onto a grassy patch, nearly mowing down a cluster of scrub bushes. The engine died. Grinding his teeth in aggravation, Nic reached past Nicky and twisted the door handle, but the sticky latch remained caught. He wrenched the handle violently, muttering one oath after another. He needed to push the boy out of the truck before he made a mess. The latch finally released and Nic shoved the door open, but before he could grab Nicky's arm and send him onto the roadside, the contents of the boy's stomach spewed onto Nic's sleeve, Nicky's lap, and the seat. Nic cursed again and lurched backward, banging his head on his door.

Nicky wailed anew, blubbering, “I'm sorry! I'm sorry, mister! I didn't mean to.”

“Shut up! Just . . . shut up!” The stench turned Nic's stomach, and the boy's shrill cries made his head pound. He cranked down his window and stuck his head out the opening, sucking humid air while Nicky sobbed on the other side of the cab. Nic pressed his fist to his forehead, his eyes crunched tight. Now what? He couldn't deposit a vomit-covered kid in the Bachmans' fine foyer. Mrs. Bachman would screw up her face in disgust. He'd have to take Nicky to his apartment, clean him up, then make the trip to Weston.

Stifling a string of profanity, he coaxed the engine to life, whirled the truck into the opposite lane, and headed back toward Boston.

Micah thanked the cab driver, grasped his suitcase, and trotted up the walk to Lydia's front door. The niggle of foreboding that had started in New York a week ago grew even stronger, the sensation of icy fingers coiled around his heart. The days of waiting for the replacement doctor had been agony, but now that Micah had reached Boston he hesitated about pressing the brass buzzer—what might he see when he looked into Lydia's eyes?

Taking a deep breath, he forced his trembling finger to connect with the button, then stepped backward. In a few moments the door opened slowly, revealing Lydia. Her face was colorless save deep smudges of purple beneath her eyes. Her hair, normally shiny and brushed back into feathery wings that framed her face, hung limp and lifeless beside sunken cheekbones. She appeared to have lost ten pounds since he'd seen her last. Concern washed over him like a tidal wave.

Her gaze met his, and then her face crumpled. Tears pooled in her bloodshot eyes. “Micah . . .” Without warning she threw herself into his arms.

Micah dropped his suitcase and held her tight. Her sobs were so harsh Micah feared she would break in two. Never had he witnessed such an outpouring of grief, and tears stung the back of his nose in response.

He lifted her and stepped over the threshold, closing the door with his foot to seal them inside the vestibule. Lydia continued to cling and weep with her arms locked around his neck. Micah rocked her, rubbing her back and smoothing her hair, whispering nonsense words to soothe her. Minutes stretched like hours as he waited for the storm to run its course, but eventually her sobs subsided to shuddering heaves and the raining tears dried to a trickle. Lowering her arms, she took a step back, but Micah kept his hands on her rib cage. He wasn't ready to let her go, and after such an emotional outpouring, he feared she might collapse.

She stood before him, her hands resting lightly on his forearms and her swollen eyes downcast. “I'm sorry, Micah. I shouldn't have fallen apart like that.”

His fingers tightened and he managed a weak grin. “Don't apologize. You're entitled to a good cry now an' then—God gave us tears for a reason. You had a hurt to dispel.” He paused, swallowing against the lump of worry filling his throat. “The hurt . . . It's about Nicky, isn't it?”

Lydia's eyes filled again, but she bit down on her lower lip and kept a rein on her emotions. She nodded, her hair slipping across her forehead. She reached up to brush it back with trembling fingers. “Nic took him six days ago.”

“And you haven't eaten at all since he left, have you?”

Slowly, her head shifted left, right, then left again. “I can't eat, wondering if Nicky has had any dinner. Everything tastes like sawdust. I just—I just can't seem to function without him.”

“Why didn't you call me?”

Her brow furrowed, and she lifted her bewildered gaze to his. “Your letter said you had a commitment . . . that you'd be away.”

Micah inwardly groaned. He should have called more times. Sent a telegram. Sent someone in his stead. He'd failed her. And Nicky. He bowed his head as guilt weighed him down.

“Why did you come, Micah?”

Her raw query brought him to life. He guided her to the parlor, seated her on one end of the sofa, and settled himself at the other end. “I kept getting this feeling that something was wrong. I tried calling several times, but no one answered the telephone. My worry got the best of me, and I knew I wouldn't be able to rest until I saw for myself that you were okay.”

Lydia released a huff. “I'm not okay. I'll never be okay again.” She stared across the room, her expression haunted. “How do they do it, Micah? How do those mothers in Poland leave their children with strangers?”

Micah slid close and took her hand. It lay limp within his grasp. “They do it in the hope of saving their children.”

She shook her head. “It's horrible, being separated from your child. Those women whose children have come to America—the children are safe, but the mothers will never see them again. Never!” She shuddered, hunching into herself. “I can't bear the thought of never seeing Nicky again. And I don't have the assurance that he's safe. With a man like Nic, he most certainly is not safe.”

“Did the judge give Nicky to Pankin even with Mrs. Fenwick's letter of testimony?”

Lydia's eyes narrowed. “Nic showed up here the day we found your packet in the mail. We never got a chance to go to the judge. Nic took him before we could go.”

Guilt assailed Micah. He should have gotten on a train and
delivered those documents himself the moment he had them in hand.

“Mother called the police the day Nic stormed in on us. They came nearly an hour after he'd left.” Her expression hardened. “And just as Nic had said, they sided with him the moment I admitted Nic was Nicky's father. They didn't want to listen to my concerns, and they threatened me with . . . with prosecution if I tried to take Nicky away from his rightful father.” Her chin quivered. “It isn't fair, Micah.”

Micah agreed, but bemoaning things wouldn't help Nicky. “But you've got those papers now. And your father has a lawyer. Take the papers to a judge and fight to get back your son. Don't just roll over and play dead for Pankin.”

Defensiveness flashed in Lydia's swollen eyes. “I've used up nearly all of my gas ration coupons, as well as many of Father's, driving the city in search of Nic and Nicky. But it seems hopeless. How can I fight for him when I don't know where he is?” Lydia's shoulders slumped. She hung her head. “I don't know what else to do.”

Micah stared at her defeated pose. What had happened to the stubborn, determined woman he'd known before? Sorrow had taken the fight out of her. He squeezed her hand. “Where are your parents?”

“Father is at work, and Mother went to the market.”

“What has your father done to try to find Nicky?”

“Nothing.” Lydia's lips formed a grim line. “Father has done nothing. He acts as if there never was a child named Nicky who called him Poppy. When Mother or I cry, he leaves the room. He has no tolerance for our broken hearts.”

Micah held his frustration inside, not wishing to add to Lydia's distress. But his thoughts railed against N. Allan Eldredge. What an obstinate man Lydia's father was. Micah drew in a
deep breath and pushed off from the sofa. “Then I suggest we do what should have been done the day Pankin walked out the door. We'll take Mrs. Fenwick's letter and journal to the police. Not just some street cop, the chief of police. You'll tell him everything you can remember about the day Pankin came—what he was wearing, the kind of automobile he drove, anything he said that might help us find him. Then we'll take those documents from Mrs. Fenwick to your lawyer so he can arrange a meeting with a judge. We'll be ready to win custody the moment we've located Nicky.”

Lydia still looked helpless. “Do you really think anyone will listen to me?”

Micah propped his hands on his hips. “I wouldn't have taken you for a quitter, Lydia. I can't believe you'd even consider giving up on your son without a fight.” His words were harsh—intentionally so. But somehow he had to stir her to life, to action.

Lydia's head dropped. Her entire frame quivered, but she balled her hands into fists. Micah waited, watching her chest pump like a bellows as she sucked in great gulps of air and released them. Suddenly she jolted upright, her eyes glittering with indignation. “I'm not a quitter. And I won't give up on Nicky.”

So she did have some life in her. Micah smiled. “Good.” He took her hands. “We'll go, but first, let's pray.” He bowed his head. “Heavenly Father, our hearts hurt because someone we love is not with us. But You know his whereabouts—Nicky is under Your watchful eye. Keep him safe. Hold Him tight in Your loving arms. And please lead us to him. In Your name we pray, amen.”

“Amen,” Lydia echoed. She looked up at Micah, her face still wan but her shoulders square. “Mrs. Fenwick's letter and journal are in my room. I'll get them, and then we can go.”

Micah rubbed his cheek. “Lydia? Before we leave, you might want to run a brush through your hair and change your clothes.”

Lydia lifted a hand to her bedraggled locks and glanced down her own length. She grimaced. “My, yes. If I go out in these rumpled clothes, the police will wonder if I'm the morphine addict.” She dashed toward the stairs, but as she placed her foot on the lowest riser she paused and peered back at Micah. “Thank you for coming. I . . . I didn't realize how much I needed you.”